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Friday, 25 November 2016

Be Still Your Voice in My Head (At Ibn Al Ameed)

Be Still Your Voice in My Head
At Ibn Al Ameed


I can always hear your soft complaining
scolding at the spitting raining
grumbling at the dust and fumes
humming chosen ancient tunes
Hi Ho Wolverhampton and here we go
dodging assassin traffic flow
weaving across White Palace Interchange
hailing Karwas blue and strange
gritting, hissing, piss poor comments
railing at our waste and torments. You say:

‘Don’t yow throw that away.
You can get a square meal
out of that tin of fish, with chili sauce it’s a good deal,
that is.”
And though you’ve gone and bloody died
I'm hearing your voice from the other side,
your Brummie accent nags at my head,
even though you’re fooking dead.


Looking across to Doha City
gazing from the dust and shitty
shimmering beacons, myriad colours
remembering times shared as brothers
grinding underfoot the gravel and sand
thinking what never goes as planned
arriving now at Ibn Al Ameed
hailing cabs that halt at speed
bewildering spoken Arabian snatches 
fumbling with the car door catches. You say:


‘Yow could walk and save money, too
and avoid that bloody taxi queue,
yow could.”
And though you’ve gone and bloody died
hearing your voice from the other side,
your Brummie accent nags through my head,
even though you’re fooking dead.


Sitting alone in this foreign bar,
regretting that half an hour it took by car
scratching scabs and bed bug sores
scraping clots with fingered claws
nailing just one further beer
pushing back one single tear
nodding at people half remembered
mouthing music badly rendered
spinning head and choking fag
flirting with some wizened hag. You say:

‘Doha? What are we doing here anyway?
Wolves and Charlton play today,
We could have gone, we could, yow know.’
I know. I bloody know. Don't you know? Still:

It’s true you’ve gone and bloody died
and I think I’m missing something inside,
your Brummie accent nags in my head,
even though you’re fooking dead.